


But You Can Call Me Baby

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-09
Updated: 2011-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-20 06:37:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Cause boyfriends come, and boyfriends go, but Tommy Joe is fucking forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But You Can Call Me Baby

It's Friday, half past three in the morning. Tommy is on Adam's front stoop. He has a super-sized carton of chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream clutched in both frostbitten hands and his elbow jammed into the doorbell. Adam isn't answering the door or his phone. All the lights are off; Adam's pretending he isn't home. Adam Lambert, ladies and gentlemen, is sulking.

An hour ago, Tommy's smokin' hot date--and he means _smoking_ , big gorgeous blue eyes and legs for miles--was three seconds away from shoving a hand down his pants. Seven text messages later (there are ten in his phone still unread; number three had him mumbling apologies, and five had him sprinting through the parking lot frantically digging for his keys), he's pretty sure the only time he's going to see her sweet ass again is when it's walking away from him. If he's lucky, she won't slap him first. The last chick he bailed on almost cracked a fucking tooth.

He doubts it would've lasted anyway.

Tommy lays off the bell. He rests his forehead on the door with a groan. His fingers are seriously going numb here. "Adam, you know it's me. It's four in the morning. Let me in."

Nothing. Tommy kicks the jamb. "You shit, you know I'm not goin' anywhere, so just open the fucking door already or I'm gonna dump this ice cream in your stupid mutant aloe vera."

Adam opens the motherfucking door. He looks like _shit_. He can dye his hair, paint over his freckles, but he's still a redhead. When he cries, his nose lights up like Rudolph's, his cheeks go blotchy, his eyes puffy and raw. It's fucking terrible. "You brought ice cream." His watery gaze slides up to take in Tommy's clothes, the dark shadow on his eyes, the liner, the lipgloss. "You were on a date. Fuck, I'm so sorry."

"Whatever, too late now." Shouldering Adam inside, Tommy steps in and plunks the soggy ice cream onto a table laden with mail and studded bracelets. He scrubs his hands haphazardly dry on the legs of his jeans before snuggling in against Adam's chest, holding on stubbornly until Adam's breath leaks out on a long, slow sigh and Adam's arms come up, enveloping him a hazy cloud of Dior Homme and body heat. Adam's heartbeat is too fast, stuttering. The back of his shirt is a little damp. Bawling your eyes out for half the night is tough work.

Muffled in Tommy's hair, Adam says, "I really am sorry."

"Whatever," Tommy repeats. He gives Adam's back a quick rub down, offering comfort and sneakily warming his hands. "Go get a spoon."

Squeezing hard one last time, Adam lets go. Tommy toes off his boots, giving his leg a kick to get the left one off when laces tangle, and wanders into the living room. He drops his jacket into a cushy plush chair and himself down onto the far end the couch, legs sprawled, arms tucked behind his head. Now that he's not so worried about Adam anymore, there's room for the pleasant buzz humming through his veins. Maybe he didn't get laid, but he still had a good time.

Adam comes in with a spoon sticking out of his mouth. He sits his ass down on the floor right between Tommy's legs and shovels up a giant heap of ice cream to stuff in his face. Tomorrow he's going to freak out and jog ten fucking miles on his crazy space-age treadmill, but right now, he's okay. He always is. Tommy pokes a toe into his thigh. Adam huffs, wriggles away, and Tommy grins.

Only after there's an ice cream crater dug halfway down the centre of the tub does Adam mumble, "It wasn't even the paps this time."

Tommy gently bumps Adam's shoulder with his knee. He doesn't need to say anything. He just likes letting Adam know he's listening.

The entire story comes tumbling out between cookie-dough tidbits. The big romantic dinner, because Adam's a total sap at heart, and because he's been away so much, locked up in the studio, running early promo; the fancy hotel room he'd booked for after; how what's-his-face was distant the whole night; how the guy fucking exploded in the middle of the hotel lobby, up in Adam's face with a dozen cameras catching the whole thing. Adam talks until he's hoarse and the ice cream's soupy. Then he goes all the way back to the beginning, beating himself up for not noticing things weren't right, for being selfish, for asking too much and not giving enough.

Which is total fucking bullshit. But Tommy's less than stellar opinion on the guy isn't gonna help. Besides that, there's getting all this shit out, and then there's dwelling on it. Tommy's not here for a self-abuse hoedown. He cuts Adam off-mid word with strong fingers pushing up through Adam's hair, blunt nails scratching from nape to crown.

Adam's shoulders slump like somebody's cut his strings. "Bassist's hands," he mumbles. "Illegal."

"All's fair, babyboy," Tommy says, scooting closer as Adam's head falls forward. Adam's hair is soft and thick, tacky at the roots with styling wax. Tommy starts combing it up into a fauxhawk, then smoothes it back down again, dragging his nails gently back through it from Adam's temples.

Adam's head drops back into Tommy's lap. Tommy grins down at him, but his eyes are closed. He's still a total mess, not even a hot mess like he gets on stage, and when Tommy kisses him, upside down and awkward, his lips are sticky-sweet, cool. He twists around for Tommy's tongue, mouth open, soft and slow. Beneath the ice cream, he tastes like tears, and Tommy hates it.

It's always way easier to start kissing Adam than to stop, but when Adam only tastes like Adam again, Tommy's lost his excuse. He eases back, resting his cheek on the top of Adam's head, his arms looped loosely around Adam's shoulders.

Too quiet, Adam says, "It's just, he could've been the one."

If somebody were to ask Tommy, he'd say anybody that pulls a stunt like this guy is anything but the one. Dickhead didn't do a damn thing to deserve Adam. But he gets where Adam's coming from. That's why he's here.

"Go stick that stuff in the freezer," Tommy says, giving Adam a tiny nudge. "I'm gonna go hog your blankets."

"Brat," Adam mutters, but he gets up, swiping another kiss and a mouthful of melted ice cream on his way.

Every time Tommy's over, he totally invades Adam's space. He roots around in the vanity for the most expensive cleanser he can find and makes sure to use too much of it. He hunts down Adam's favourite toner from where it's hidden behind the condoms. He steals Adam's toothbrush. He digs around in Adam's drawers, messing them up, hauling out his pyjama pants which are really Adam's but are actually so very much his. They're too big and he ends up kicking them off while he sleeps every time without fail, but they're his.

Adam makes a disgruntled noise at finding his toothbrush wet. Already flaked out in Adam's big bed, Tommy scrubs his feet on the sheets to warm them up because Adam bitches about his cold toes if he doesn't. He switches the pillows so he's got the fluffiest one. The one that smells like Adam.

"But you're so tiny," Adam complains, wearing only his shorts as he crawls into the sliver of space Tommy's not sprawled out in. He cuddles close, 'cause that's the point, chin resting on the back of his hand on Tommy's bare chest. Being alone isn't the same as loneliness, but Adam doesn't like either so it doesn't really matter. Tommy fluffs up Adam's hair, waiting.

He never has to wait long. Adam rolls halfway on top of him, one thigh sliding between his, heavy warm pressure on his junk. They've been friends for a long time now, lived in each other's pockets on more than one tour, but Adam still likes to look at him before they kiss, like there might be things about Tommy's face he hasn't noticed yet, hasn't committed to memory. Tommy lets him look all he wants. Anticipation twists up his insides. Most of it is nerves. It doesn't make much sense to be nervous around Adam about anything.

Adam's gaze drops to his mouth. He parts his lips, heart beating a little harder, breath coming a little faster. He takes the push of Adam's tongue the same as he always does, more than willingly, more than just enjoying the slick-wet slide of it against his. He doesn't really know what it is about Adam that makes him crave kisses like candy, like a junkie, like a guy with two minutes to live. He knows it's not healthy, but he doesn't really believe that.

Like all the times before, their kisses turn wetter, dirtier. They keep on going until they're both breathless, until Adam's lips are flushed deep dark red and Tommy's are sore, tingling. Beneath the clutch of Tommy's hands, Adam's back is hot, tense. Tommy's half-hard and Adam's all the way there, thick and ready.

And that's when they stop. Adam flops onto his back, dazed and panting, and Tommy cuddles in beneath the curve of his arm. If Tommy would for once think about what they're doing here, maybe he'd admit it's pretty fucking weird. But that's not Tommy's deal. Thinking about shit makes it messy. He doesn't want messy. He wants this.

He wants an Adam he doesn't have to worry about losing.

In the morning, Tommy wakes with Adam's wood poking him in the ass. He wriggles onto his back, one hand loose on his belly and the other on Adam's hip, thumb stroking along the sharp curve of bone. He's warm and hard, and there's a low-grade current of pleasure thrumming in his belly, comfortably familiar. Sunlight ekes in around the edges of the blinds, a hazy soft glow lighting Adam's face. Adam's Adam again, a smile lurking at the corners of his lips even in sleep.

When Adam quits snoring into his hair, he gets up, hauling on Adam's tee from yesterday. He's in the middle of taking a leak when Adam stumbles into the bathroom, bleary-eyed and rumpled. Their kisses are sleep-sour and Tommy makes a face, nose wrinkled, but all Adam does is laugh and trap him against the counter with his pants down, marble cold on his bare ass, Adam's cock hot and a little thick against his, Adam kissing him again.

"Fucker," Tommy mutters, squirming away to pad barefoot out to the kitchen.

"Aw, c'mon," Adam whines, still laughing.

While Adam putters around in the bathroom, obsessively washing his face and humming a tune Tommy doesn't know but likes the sound of, Tommy pulls out a mixing bowl, measuring cups, a spoon. Adam's rollercoaster love life has turned him into Betty fucking Crocker. Three years ago his pancakes were from a box and flat as his ass. Now they're from scratch, light and fluffy, decked out in strawberries, blueberries, fancy daubs of whipped cream. Adam ends up drowning them in syrup either way, but he's a giant dork beneath the glamrock glitter and loves the crooked happy face made of berries beaming up at him.

Tommy loves the taste of Adam's sweet maple kisses.


End file.
